


savior complex

by julek



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Kaer Morhen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26737276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/julek/pseuds/julek
Summary: Eskel doesn't return to Kaer Morhen for the winter, and Geralt thinks the worst has happened.based off atumblrprompt.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 11
Kudos: 106





	savior complex

Winter had been unforgiving.

The cold had come much earlier, the biting winds and violent blizzards making their way across the North with insistence, leaving little hope for the travelers that dared to venture the snow-covered roads. Geralt had endured his way up the path to Kaer Morhen, keeping his grip on Roach’s reins steady as he allowed his mind to wander, thinking of the months to come, finally reunited with his brothers.

Geralt knew the way up the mountain like the back of his hand. The trees and shrubs that coated the path —pines, azaleas, firs— and the small, innocuous creatures that inhabited the crevices and nooks of the forest. He’d grown used to the sight of the covered peaks of the Blue Mountains looming on the horizon, moonlight reflecting on the frozen surface of the Gwenllech.

He’d been the first to show up at the keep. Days passed, and soon enough, Lambert rode in, his stallion stomping his feet on the cobblestone. Coën followed, his cart loaded with provisions, and more importantly, Redanian wine.

The snow kept falling, unrelenting, and in the third week, Vesemir announced the pass had been covered, meaning no one would be able to go out or come in. Fear clawed at Geralt’s throat, much more palpable now with clear confirmation — Eskel wasn’t coming home.

The months passed idly by, and Geralt kept busy — repairing the roofs, going out for hunts, sparring with Lambert and Coën under Vesemir’s attentive gaze. He could sense the rest of the witchers were as uneasy as he felt —could see the look in their eyes when they sat at the table for supper, the empty chair burning at the sight— though no one uttered a word. There had been no letter, no medallion to bury, but they all knew. They were very well acquainted with the risks of the Path, how precarious a witcher’s life became once they set foot in the Continent, the perpetual recipient of human hatred. Geralt knew.

He thought they’d have more time.

As the days grew longer and flowers started blooming, Geralt left the keep. He hugged his brothers goodbye, maybe held them a little tighter than before, nodded to Vesemir, and led Roach out of the grounds. He moved down south, deep into Kaedwen, walking the path he knew so well. It was as inviting as it’d been every spring, greeting him with bright colors and days full of sunshine, but Geralt felt different. His world had shifted, tilted off its axis, his sight askew and suddenly colorblind, his intent wavering.

Geralt ran into Jaskier in Murivel, summer looming close. The bard had had a terrible winter in Oxenfurt, and for a second, Geralt was glad he hadn’t been the only one. They moved along the Pontar, Geralt chasing after monsters and Jaskier chasing after him, falling into their usual rhythm. He couldn’t bring himself to talk about Eskel, even though he knew he could trust Jaskier — hurt wrapped itself around his stomach and smothered his lungs, leaving him gasping for air.

Some days, the winds would carry the faintest scent of magic mixed with smoke, and Geralt would stop dead in his tracks, waiting to see Eskel emerge from the forest, his scar twisted by a grin and his armor intact. Safe. He’d roam the woods at night while Jaskier slept soundly on his bedroll, looking. What for, he wasn’t sure — a body? A sign?

“How do witchers deal with death?” Jaskier asked him one afternoon, quill in hand. “I promise it’s not for a song.”

Geralt shrugged, his amber eyes somber even in the sunlight. He didn’t answer for a while, carefully thinking about it.

“We’re not… we’re not usually together, when one of our kind dies.” He frowned. “We’re lucky if we even get confirmation that they’re dead.”

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier said, sincerity burning through cornflower blue. “You don’t even get a chance to say goodbye.”

Geralt shook his head, pressing a hand to his forehead, feeling the knot on his throat tighten.

“Our medallions are buried when we pass,” he said after a while. “It’s the only time we go home, I guess.”

It was a half-truth at best, but it was all Geralt had to offer. Jaskier nodded almost knowingly and turned back to his lute, but Geralt could smell the faint scent of sadness lingering on the bard. He said nothing, half-fearing he’d try to comfort him with empty words only meant for himself. How could he reassure Jaskier that it was just the way things were for witchers, that it was rooted in years of discipline, and endurance, and tradition, when he couldn’t believe it himself?

They moved on as they were wont to do, passing through Ellander and Hagge, avoiding the fork in the road that led to Vengerberg. Jaskier filled the days with his chatter and music, still singing of Geralt’s feats and heroics at any tavern he could find, Geralt’s eyes trailing after red gambesons, disappointed when their owners turned around, no carved medallion on their chests.

“Thank you, my good men and women, for listening to my tales!” he heard Jaskier exclaim from his corner in the tavern, “Please, direct your applause to my muse, Geralt of Rivia!”

The patrons turned around, their eyes bright and their cheeks flushed with ale, and cheered at him with genuine enthusiasm. He raised his tankard at them, and went back to keeping out of sight—brooding, as Jaskier liked to call it—while the bard finished gathering his things.

Geralt swirled his watered-down ale in his cup, the rain pattering hard against the window. He remained seated, watching Jaskier flirt his way through the tavern, an oddly comforting sight. He enjoyed nights like these, easy and undemanding, where he could just sit with his thoughts, a pastime severely frowned upon by Vesemir.

He let his mind wander, inevitably reaching his fondest memories, the few he prized the most. He and Eskel sharing a bowl of stew, sitting on the furs he’d pulled down from his bed, in front of the hearth. Eskel on hen duty, stubbornly letting the coop door ajar, then chasing all of the chicken across the courtyard as Geralt laughed and refused to help. Long, cold winter nights, legs intertwined under the blankets, Geralt’s head resting on Eskel’s collarbone. Whispered secrets, stolen kisses, yearning glances.

He thought they’d have more time.

“Does my singing bore you _that_ much, witcher?”

Geralt opened his eyes, Jaskier coming into view. His lips were curled into an easy grin, his sweaty hair sticking to his forehead. He was holding two tankards of ale, and passed one to Geralt.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly, meeting Geralt’s eyes.

Geralt wrinkled his nose slightly, looking away. The creases of his forehead were deeply set into his skin, the lines under his eyes more prominent now. Feeling Jaskier’s eyes on him, Geralt hummed a reply.

“I’m exhausted,” Jaskier said after a moment, leaning his arms on the table. “Think I’m gonna call it an early night. Feel free to stay down, though.”

Geralt nodded, sipping at his ale. He’d probably have some more to drink, before falling into another night of restless sleep.

His eyes followed Jaskier’s figure climbing up the stairs, a force of habit. Slumping in his seat, his back to the door, Geralt watched the tavern. The barmaids moved diligently with trays, mugs, and plates, making their way across the floors. He could hear the faint sounds of a heated argument between the cook and the barkeep, could see a young couple sharing a meal in the dim candlelight, their eyes glowing with infatuation and the promise of a life together, waiting ahead of them.

Geralt rolled his eyes at the sight, his ale suddenly tasting bitter. He heard the tavern door swing open, the wind howling outside, and a strong scent filled his senses. Smoke and spices —rosemary and basil— and the kind of oil Geralt used on his blades. There was an underlying scent Geralt couldn’t quite pick up on, something that barely scratched the surface.

Turning around, Geralt was met with broad shoulders sporting a deep oxblood gambeson with crisscrossed yellow stitchings, spikes covering the pads of his armor. Dark hair fell in curtains on his face, the scar on his side a dark maroon in the firelight as he gesticulated wildly, bargaining with the innkeeper.

Geralt remained still, his hand frozen on his tankard, as he closed his eyes, his mouth twisted into a pained grimace. He felt the man move closer, his scent becoming stronger, making the tip of his tongue tingle. Geralt placed his hand on his medallion and felt it vibrate faintly.

Magic.

“The Great White Wolf, napping in some shitty tavern in the middle of nowhere,” a deep, quiet voice rumbled. “Whatever would Vesemir say.”

Geralt opened his eyes, expecting to stare into emptiness, like many countless times he’d drunk himself into oblivion. Instead, he found a curious amber gaze looking down at him, brows arched.

“Eskel,” he breathed.

Before he knew it, Geralt was standing tall, arms wrapped around Eskel. He found the nook of his neck, just below his jaw, and breathed in deeply, his scent impregnating Geralt’s senses. His body felt warm, enveloped in the first rays of sunlight after a cold, dark winter. He felt safe.

After a moment, he pulled back, pressing his forehead against Eskel’s, his hands on each side of his face. They breathed in slowly, looking into each other’s eyes, and a choked noise escaped Geralt’s throat, betraying his composure. He buried his face in Eskel’s shoulder, his breath unsteady and his eyes stinging. He couldn’t bear to look at his face, not after months of convincing himself that death had finally ripped him away from his heart.

“You really thought I was dead?” he heard Eskel murmur, his lips pressed against his temple.

Geralt said nothing, doubting his voice wouldn’t falter. Instead, he held Eskel tighter, pressed all his love into his hands, hoping he’d feel it, too. He’d try using his words later, when they were lying down, knees pressed together, Geralt murmuring against Eskel’s collarbone, the firelight illuminating his medallion, unburied.

They had all the time in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading <3
> 
> find me on [tumblr](http://julek.tumblr.com/).


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